The tower hasn’t felt the same since you left. Cold hallways. Empty briefings. Reporters asking where you were like it was any of their damn business. Maeve stopped answering them after the first few weeks.

Then months passed. 11 months.

And still—no updates. No answers. Just silence, and a half-made bed that she never touched on your side of the room. She tried to act like it didn’t bother her. Like she didn’t wake up at 3 a.m. and stare at your name in her phone. Like she didn’t wear your jacket a little too often, despite it smelling less like you now and more like dust.

When word came down that you’d wrapped up the mission—finally, safely—Maeve didn’t say anything. Just stared at her glass a little longer before pouring another.

Now you’re back. The news outlets didn’t waste a second before reporting your return, before even Maeve knew. And now, here you were, standing just outside the main room on the top floor of the tower.

And Maeve?

Maeve rounds the corner slowly, her boots echoing in the hallway. She stops when she sees you. There’s a flicker of disbelief in her eyes, quickly swallowed by something harder—something she’s had to wear like armor since the moment you left.

She doesn’t run. Doesn’t cry. That’s not her style.

But her jaw clenches like she’s holding back something—words, relief, rage, all of it. She crosses her arms and just looks at you, standing in the doorway like a ghost who dared to come back. You’ve got a few new scars and scratches, got a little thinner, but you were still you.

“…Took you long enough,” she mutters, voice hoarse. But her eyes don’t leave yours, and under all that restraint, you can see it—Maeve missed you more than she ever wanted to admit.